A Languid Heart
by Iyatiku
Summary: Five lives intertwined, guided by the mysterious hand of evil.
1. Start the Reactor

_Chapter 1: Start the Reactor_

_October 28__th__, 2004 – 1:10 AM_

_Snape_

Drip…

The pipes above the cavern continued to sweat, as though the grim chill of the chamber more resembled the dream-like warmth of a gentle summer, pleasing and trustworthy like the glance of a parent, propositioning the perspiration to leave the body as a penance to some invisible idol. Snape despised the sound.

He motioned his head backwards, towards the elevator in the background. The platform he stood upon was cylindrical. He couldn't see the walls. Looking into the distance, the already dark interior merely bled into a night as black as his robes. Complex machinery lined the edges of the platform, the purpose of which Snape did his best not to consider. At the farthest end from the elevator, was a twisted throne of ebony and onyx, in which an equally twisted figure sat upon, his sinister visage hidden underneath a shabby brown hooded cloak. Snape knew the face that lay beneath the cloak, yes; he knew it all too well. All knew his name, feared his name, could not begin to comprehend his motives, or the true machinations of his madness, his _evil_.

Snape knew this and more, yet was powerless. His position was set in stone, there was no escape.

A thin groan emanated from within the figure's cloak. "Snaaaaaape...," it hissed. The figure raised its gnarled right hand and motioned towards an LCD screen at Snape's side. The screen whirred to life and lit up. Snape was familiar with its contents. Five azure circles filled the monitor. It was a familiar sight, oh yes. If someone happened to play connect the dots with these particular circles, one would be left with a pentagram. Snape was thankful each time he saw the display that no such connection existed, at least visibly. Within each circle was a photograph.

_Like a head shot_, thought Snape.

The top left circle, a picture of a homely girl, her hair unkempt.

The bottom left circle, a plump boy, his eyes dancing.

The bottom right circle, the face of a wasted prodigy, his talent squandered, and his ability put to foolish use by a trivial mind. Malfoy… the disappointment. _His _disappointment.

The upper right circle… the boy. Potter.

Snape didn't waste a glance on the highest point, the top of the would-be pentagram. He knew it was his own photograph. He knew it far too well. The figure on the throne stood, his bones shrieking like ancient machinery. Something within Snape seemed to shriek with it, far beyond his thoughts.

"Now is the time, Snape, _my_ Snape," it whispered. "Or will you back out? Escape? You would lose nothing, you know. Nothing you value."

_You don't know what you're talking about. He valued his life. Didn't he? _Didn't_ he?_

"Certainly not Sire. I am yours," Snape said, sounding confident. Such a confidence existed only outward. The figure chuckled, a hoarse, uneasy sound. The mere sound of the figure's amusement felt like a garrote around the windpipe of Snape's sanity. He wondered how much longer until it collapsed entirely. "Then, my boy, you are committed entirely to my project? You accept it, without any form of hesitation?"

Snape knew if he considered the question for even a moment he would be killed immediately. He gave a single, slow nod of his head. A shrieking bout of _piercing_ laughter filled the chamber, echoing not off of the walls but off of Snape's own _fear_, and he was afraid, so terribly, _terribly_ afraid.

The figure raised its hand. It reached out from its rope, a horrible, pale hand, thin and polluted with age, and pointed at the machinery to Snape's left. Without looking, Snape knew. The lever, that lever, soon to be _his_ lever. The figured emitted another burst of its chilling laughter, flaying Snape's insides.

"Well, Snape? Then we are both ready. The dance begins," the figure whispered, an exquisite expression of triumph inflected in the voice. "Snape," it started.

"_Start the reactor."_


	2. Hop, Skip, Run

_Chapter 2: Hop, Skip, Run_

_October 29__th__, 2004 – 3:33 PM_

_Harry_

It was unseasonably warm.

Autumn had yet give way to the chilling cold of winter, and the sun smiled amiably down on the children of Hogwarts as they ambled about the grounds without jackets. Harry sat upon a bench of stone, deep in intensive thought, or rather the intent of appearing deep in intensive thought. Hermione sat to his right, upon her robes which she used as a makeshift blanket. She wore a silk blouse, white as the full moon on a clear day. It wasn't quite a poetic thought; Harry mused that there was little romanticism in his mind this afternoon. She was reading from a heavy tome, incomprehensible to any normal, well-adjusted person. Ron wasn't around.

Harry was glad.

Hermione sighed heavily, as though she was alone and the world was hers to contemplate at her leisure. Harry was completely out of her field of vision, and since Ron was off doing Ronnish things, Harry was free to take her full visage in, as though _he_ was alone and she was his to contemplate at his leisure. Hermione was an ugly girl: there was little point in fooling himself. Her nose was small, crooked, and her eyes darted about as though she was a sewer rat, attempting to anticipate every possible threat, and lay upon any possible advantage. Ratty ol' Hermione. That was about right. So why did he look?

_Maybe it's because I can. Ron (hate) isn't here. If he (him) was, I couldn't even risk a (hate him) glance, at her, that maligned face, always full of fear, expecting the WORST. _

He knew he wasn't attracted to her. He knew who HE was, after all. He was still a name, _the_ name in Hogwarts. There were far prettier girls, and he could have them all. Harry thought about how he felt about other girls, and the feelings and images he associated with them.

Cho Chang? _Like_ _a dark sunset, the ending of a warm relationship, the beginning of a velvet friendship. _

Ginny Weasley? _He sees himself drinking cocoa on a harsh winter morning, a dark kitchen lit up only by the soft light of the sun spilling in from a large window. _

Yet… Hermione Granger? _A white owl, impossibly white. Maybe even as white as the full moon on a clear day. Wise yellow eyes, rolled up in their sockets like two putrid craters, pus spewing from the mouth and ears._

_He thinks of himself, holding a large glass of milk. He's just eaten a peanut butter sandwich, and takes the glass upstairs. He drops it on the way, and it shatters. Milk sprays everywhere, sinking into the wood of the floor like some ancient essence long forgotten._

He doesn't want to think about it, but glances at Hermione once more. She's still engrossed in her tome. Harry notices with a feeling he is unable to identify, though he knows it would have red hair (you betcha, Ron starts with 'R' and so does revulsion) and freckles. She isn't wearing a bra. He thinks about the feeling, the caress of a breast clad in thin, cheap silk. Harry felt mildly ill. He didn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Gosh, Harry, you certainly seem powerfully lost in thought!", an eager voice exclaimed.

It was Ron. Harry turned with a wave, and was astonished at the sense of relief and happiness that rushed through his body at the sight of his friend. _Did I really think those things?_ No matter.

"I was just thinking about the current situation, Ron," Harry said. He noticed dimly that Hermione had fallen asleep, her closed eyes still furiously focused on the book. There were some feelings that didn't change. _Didn't they? _He supposed he loved both of them, in a way only the closest friends are able to, those who have experienced both loss and gain together. Ron seemed not to notice. "Well, you'll never believe it, Harry!", Ron began. "I caught a word with ol' Hagrid on the way here, and he said he's got something to show the lot of us. Shall we wake Hermione and be off?"

Ron sounded jovial. Harry's earlier thoughts were most definitely off. Lots of things started with 'R', after all. Ron, revulsion, reaction,

_(reactor)_

radiance, righteousness. He was just on edge. He had a lot to be on edge about, he supposed. He heard a slight giggle, girlish, but filled with contempt.

"Well, Harry, didn't you hear Ron? We've naught better to do, we'd might as well see Hagrid! Perhaps he has a splendid surprise for us, hmm?", Hermione squealed.

_(Wasn't she sleeping?Wasn't she---)_

"Yeah, sure," he replied.

The three friends set off for Hagrid's shack. Harry was aware that the world seemed beautiful. The three linked arms as they walked, laughing.

_Everything was okay._


	3. Black Forest

_Chapter 3: Black Forest_

_October 29__th__, 2004 – 11:54 PM_

_Neville_

Neville awoke.

He knew not where he was. It was an unfamiliar place. He knew naught what force brought him here. There was a blank. There was a scent, however, that was familiar. Intimately. The odor assaulted his nose savagely, as though a lion might assault an antelope, not out of malice, but out of the fear of its own death – for _survival_. It was the smell of the forest, dark and malignant as the tomb of any man who lost his life senselessly, without purpose.

He recalled what had happened. He had survived. Moreover, he was angry. This wasn't right. He had done nothing wrong. The shame surfaced within him, eating away at what was left of his pride. This wasn't merely a wound, a blow. It was annihilation, a sort of genocide of self. What had he done wrong?

Classes had ended. Neville recalled his plans for the night; he went to get dinner, like any other student. Yet he supposed he wasn't like any other student. He knew better than to sugar coat the truth. Neville was fat. He didn't know why he was fat anymore than he knew why God had decided for boys like him to have so much girth and so little luck. He always thought he had accepted it – there was little to be done, after all. For all the magic and wonder of Hogwarts, no wand or incantation could make him thin. So he tried to get along as gracefully as a large boy can.

This particular night had started out rather normally. He had visited the dining hall, and gotten his meal. As he tried to find a seat, he ran into _them. _He thought it was probably the oldest story in the world. Every fat boy in the world had _them. _They might be different, sure; different attitude, different voice, different method of torture, but they were still _them._

For Neville, they, _them, _were Draco Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Neville might have considered Malfoy his nemesis, if he didn't know better. He was nothing to Malfoy. The incessant abuse, both physical and mental, seemed like a chemical reaction. For all the pain he caused Neville, all the suffering and sleepless nights, he knew he was nothing in the eyes of his torturer. For all the thought Neville put into avoiding Malfoy, into wondering what was next, what new, sinister humiliation, Neville knew Malfoy never considered him. Probably. More likely than not, he thought.

He remembered the night's confrontation well, recalling the dull, blistering heat of a fresh wound brought back to life in the dead still of deep concentration. He hadn't noticed them until it was too late. Someone, probably Malfoy, had stuck his leg out. Neville had dropped his tray and fell face first into his beef Wellington, pâté covering his amble face. He remembered the feeling of a rough hand pushing his face further into his ruined meal, the voice behind the hand growling in a low pitch.

"Bet it still looks good to you, huh fat boy? Blimey!" Neville had known the voice. It had belonged to Vincent Crabbe It had sounded full of triumph. "Should we make eat the rest of eat, Malfoy?", Crabbe cried. "Should we?" Malfoy replied, in the coarse, gravelly voice Neville had grown to hate, "No. Pick him up, both of you. Let's go somewhere more quiet. He was brought to his feet brutally by Crabbe and Goyle, who had his arms in a lock. He thought for sure his bones would snap. They began to drag him to a dark corridor, secluded and somehow terrifying to Neville, who had only wanted to eat his meal and peace before retiring at his leisure to his room.

As they forced him along, he heard the shrill, mocking voice of Pansy Parkinson from somewhere back in the dining hall. "Where you going, fat boy? Don't you want to stay for dinner? You can sit with us!" A host of female laughter erupted from one of the Slytherin tables. The laughter hurt, but the sound of it receding as they went further down the corridor hurt him more. He knew he wouldn't get off easy.

He recalled the way they had pushed him against a wall, wordless, soundless. He had been too afraid, too terrified to even consider trying to comprehend their voices. It was like a dream. Malfoy had said something to one of them, and it was he and Goyle holding him against the wall. Vincent Crabbe had muttered something, chuckling as he did it, and suddenly bloodied Neville's nose with surprising grace. It was a swift motion. Neville didn't feel the pain, but screamed. He was bleeding quite a lot.

He remembered breaking free. He had ran, and conscious thought had rushed back into him like a bullet entering his large brain. His size had offered no advantage that day. His synapses were sluggish, his movement brazen but futile. They had called after him, shouting threats and obsceneties, intermingled with laughter like guests at some hellish cocktail party, where the only topic of discussion was the assassination of his character.

Their words had claimed they would get him, as if they gave chase, but they did not. Neville hadn't noticed. He had rushed out of the school and sought shelter as though his life was about to end. He remembered being sure such an outcome was the only possible one. His nose was still gushing. Somehow he'd found his way outside, and rushed into the forest, ignoring all common sense, every voice in his head screaming that there was no threat, that _they weren't after him_, but he was sure it was a lie, _their lie,_ it was them, _them, _and they were after _him._

_Them._

That was when he had fallen asleep. Neville looked around. He knew _where_ he was, but that didn't do a lot of good. He was in the forest, but so what? Without knowing which way to go, he could find himself face to face with something that made Malfoy and his chums look like kittens. He had been safe so far, though. He considered staying where he was. It was a small grove, and the trees around him gave him a sense of security, looming about as if they were soldiers, at a post intented for his protection alone. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed or how long he was asleep.

_It might only have been a few minutes. If I go back, who's to say they aren't waiting for me? _Them... _they might wait for me. Just for fun. If it's been longer, maybe a few hours, I could just wait here…the sun might come up soon, maybe even in a few minutes. I've got my robe to keep me warm and no creatures… or worse… have found me yet. _

He didn't want to think about that, though. He found his mind drifting to the dream he had. It was hazy, in the way that dreams often were just upon waking him. He wanted to hold onto it, as if it held crucial signifigance to his life, and more importantly, his current situation. But what had it been about?

He considred it intently, with the look of a scholar, some great mind long forgotton, pasted upon his chubby face. If anyone had been around to see him, they'd have thought the look quite fanciful. Until he screamed at the sight of them.

_Core._

Core? What core? That's a stupid thing to think about. Had he dreamed about apples? He could think of no other type of core. Unless…

"_Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeville!"_

"Oh God, Oh God, they've found me…", he was muttering under his breath. He neither noticed nor cared he was speaking aloud. He heard something, not a voice but a distant rustling sound. It was getting closer. It's _them_, it's _them_, it's _them_, it's _them_, it's _them_… He knew it to be so. He rose quickly, and begin shifting restlessly, turning his head in every direction, as if he hoped to maintain 360 degrees of sight to elude his enemies, to elude _them. _While he thought his concentration was on this kind of mental scouting, he knew he was focused solely on maintaining his calm, to keep from screaming and screaming, leading _them_ right to him. He didn't hear the footsteps of the three figures that had gotten behind him. A hand fell upon his shoulder.

Neville screamed.


End file.
